Page 7

The bathroom door is on my right, sitting half-open. Sliding off the bed I push it the rest of the way, flicking on the light. Clean, modern white tiles flow throughout the space where a roll top bath sits next to a large separate shower with a rainfall tap.

Oh my god, this is heaven, ten times better than my pokey little flat in Edinburgh.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that it’s almost lunchtime and I haven’t yet eaten today. I should really get on with writing the second book in my trilogy though. Besides how can I go back out there now and face him. With his perfectly symmetrical face, chiselled cheekbones, and a jawline that looks like it could cut glass.

“Nope, not doing that. Absolutely not,” I berate myself, before sitting at the table, pressing my palms against my eyes. But irritatingly there he is again. Shoulder length sandy blonde hair, smouldering deep blue eyes, and his lips… Oh my god Bri, shut up!

My brain’s not done though. I’m now thinking about his accent, English, maybe? Rich, smooth and precise in a way that gives me goosebumps. And those tattoos covering his arms, hot!

He’s also ridiculously tall. Tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him properly, which I resent on principle. But his smell… That was like… Autumn. Spiced cardamom and a hint of woodsmoke, like the first cold evening of the year. Which is ridiculous because it’s July.

Mr-Smells-Like-Autumn-in-the-Wrong-Month ha!

Annoying. Very annoying. Both him and these thoughts.

Shaking out my arms, I exhale loudly.

“His attitude is not attractive,” I remind myself, standing and locating my shoes—decision made. Writing in that library sounds like heaven. I might even stop at the bar for a glass of wine first. One before lunch won’t hurt and after the week I’ve had, I think I’ve earned it.

The library is the perfect writing spot. After pouring myself a generous glass of chilled white wine from the honesty bar—writing my room number and one large Pinot Grigio into the little notebook—I’d settled at the small writing desk and managed to flesh out a few of the chapters that had been plaguing my dreams.

The library door creaks open behind me and I glance up to see a woman in her mid-twenties trailing her fingers along the books. She’s dressed entirely in black, including her nail varnish, with a sharp purple bob that’s cropped at the back and longer at the front. Her chunky boots thud softly against the wooden floor as she explores the bookshelves.

“Sorry,” she says quietly in an American accent, peering at me through thick lashes. Her eyes are striking, a deep sea-green made even more vivid by the smoky eyeshadow framing them. “Do you know if we’re allowed to take these back to our rooms?”

I laugh. “I hope so. I don’t actually work here.” I gesture to the screen. “I’m just hijacking the library for writing.”

“Oh! Wow, that’s really cool. What sort of books do you write?”

“Romantasy, I’m currently writing book two in my trilogy. I’m working at a local convention this weekend to sell book one. Hopefully sell it anyway.”

“No way, me too,” she says. Smiling, she takes a seat at the table. “Working at the convention I mean, not selling books, I make horror props. I’m Ember.”

“Bri,” I say, smiling widely. I instantly like her.

Before either of us can say more, the door opens again. This time it’s a man, maybe late forties, tall with dark hair swept neatly back, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and charcoal dress trousers. Handsome in an effortless sort of way.

“Ah, Buongiorno. Hi,” he says in a warm Italian accent. “Welcome to Honeypot Lodge. I hope you settle in comfortable, sì?”

We assure him we have, and he introduces himself as Enzo. He’s the owner of this little slice of heaven.

His gaze lands on my laptop. “Ahh, I hear we have author staying this weekend.”

My brain immediately checks behind him to see if he’s talking to somebody else, as heat creeps into my cheeks. “Guilty.”

He smiles. “I would love to buy copy of your novel for the library. Would be nice to have new Scottish talent on shelves for future guests to discover, sì?”

For a second, I’m too surprised to answer. “I’d... I’d love that. I’ll bring you a copy after lunch.”

“Perfetto.” He claps his hands together once. “Speaking of, lunch is served on veranda in ten. Don’t be late,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

Ember grins at me the second the door closes. “Well, that was cool.”

I can’t stop smiling. “Honestly, I’m still processing it. My first sale.”

“And I’m sale number two; I also want a copy.”

“You don’t need to do that.”